The Fly

At that moment the boss noticed that a fly had fallen into his broad inkpot, and was trying feebly but desperately to clamber out again.

Help ! help ! said those struggling legs. But the sides of the inkpot were wet and slippery ; it fell back again and began to swim.

The boss took up a pen, picked the fly out of the ink, and shook it on to a piece of blotting-paper. For a fraction of a second it lay still on the dark patch that oozed round it.

Then the front legs waved, took hold, and, pulling its small, sodden body up it began the immense task of cleaning the ink from its wings.

Over and under, over and under, went a leg along a wing, as the stone goes over and under the scythe.

Then there was a pause, while the fly, seeming to stand on the tips of its toes, tried to expand first one wing and then the other.

It succeeded at last, and, sitting down, it began, like a minute cat, to clean its face.

Now one could imagine that the little front legs rubbed against each other lightly, joyfully.

The horrible danger was over ; it had escaped ; it was ready for life again.

But just then the boss had an idea. He plunged his pen back into the ink, leaned his thick wrist on the blotting paper, and as the fly tried its wings down came a great heavy blot.

What would it make of that ? What indeed ! The little beggar seemed absolutely cowed, stunned, and afraid to move because of what would happen next. But then, as if painfully, it dragged itself forward.

The front legs waved, caught hold, and, more slowly this time, the task began from the beginning.

He's a plucky little devil, thought the boss, and he felt a real admiration for the fly's courage.

That was the way to tackle things ; that was the right spirit. Never say die ; it was only a question of ... But the fly had again finished its laborious task, and the boss had just time to refill his pen, to shake fair and square on the new-cleaned body yet another dark drop.

What about it this time ? A painful moment of suspense followed. But behold, the front legs were again waving ; the boss felt a rush of relief.

He leaned over the fly and said to it tenderly, " You artful little b . . ." And he actually had the brilliant notion of breathing on it to help the drying process.

All the same, there was something timid and weak about its

efforts now, and the boss decided that this time should be the last, as he dipped the pen deep into the inkpot.

It was. The last blot fell on the soaked blotting-paper, and the draggled fly lay in it and did not stir.

The back legs were stuck to the body; the front legs were not to be seen.

" Come on," said the boss. " Look sharp ! " And he stirred it with his pen—in vain. Nothing happened or was likely to happen. The fly was dead.

The boss lifted the corpse on the end of the paper-knife and flung it into the waste-paper basket.

But such a grinding feeling of wretchedness seized him that he felt positively frightened. He started forward and pressed the bell for Macey.

" Bring me some fresh blotting-paper," he said, sternly, " and look sharp about it.

" And while the old dog padded away he fell to wondering what it was he had been thinking about before. What was it ? It was... He took out his handkerchief and passed it inside his collar. For the life of him he could not remember.

The Fly
by Katherine Mansfield

The Fly 1|The Fly 2

Short Stories for Kids - Moral Stories – English Short Stories for Children - Moral Stories for Kids - Stories for Kids - Funny Story for Kids - Scary Stories for Kids - Really Funny Short Stories - Bedtime Stories

Short Stories for Kids - Moral Stories – English Short Stories for Children - Moral Stories for Kids - Stories for Kids - Funny Story for Kids - Scary Stories for Kids - Really Funny Short Stories - Bedtime Stories
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